


The Game of Want

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Episode Related, Explicit sexual themes, F/M, Sibling Incest, Suggestiveness, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It is a game of want... and wanting."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game of Want

**Author's Note:**

> All the dialogue for this was taken directly, verbatim, from that infamous bedroom scene. All credit goes to the writers of the show for that; I just interpreted Cesare's thoughts and actions to serve my own purposes--which are not all that contrary from where the show went, honestly. :P

"Lucrezia?" Cesare calls, knocking lightly on her bedchamber door.

"Is that my brother?" she calls back, through the heavy, panelled wood.

"Yes," he says, feeling a smile begin to curl in his heart.

"The brother who loves me?"

"The same." Cesare tamps down the smile that wants to curl on his face, too. He knows if he let it show that it would be damning in its incarnation: that of a man talking with his beloved; but not, under any circumstances, should that beloved be his _sister_.

"Come in then, see my wedding gown."

She sounds almost lustful, though if anyone had dared to utter such a thing in Cesare's presence, it would be the last word that ever breathed from their lips. Cesare does not even want to think it himself, because it puts him in mind of a wanton, and his sister is not that.

Or at least, he would have argued that point until a sword put to his throat stopped the words, except he opens the door and there she lies, on her golden-threaded garment, her hair loose and curling and similarly golden… and completely nude.

_Good God,_ is all he can think, staring at her, feeling suddenly mutton-headed.

"God, um," Cesare manages to squeeze through a tightened throat—tightened by near-lecherous thoughts that have no place in the mind of a cleric. Even a _former_ cleric.

"Come closer, brother," Lucrezia says in a beautiful, musical tone. "My gown. Do you approve?"

He cannot even make the slightest decision about how he feels about the fabric. All he can see is her: his sister, lovely enough to make kings and yes, even popes, weep. And unsuitably wearing nothing in front of her eldest brother. A man grown, and a man who has no business harbouring the thoughts about her that are currently whirling in his head.

"The gold is, um, divine," Cesare says through a roughened throat. He glances at her, sees the slightest bare curve of her breast, and turns quickly, but instead of marching out of the chamber the way that he should, he instead shuts the door. And finds himself standing, at cross-purposes, in her chamber, with Lucrezia lying on her bed, in an absolutely indiscreet manner considering her caller is who it is. Him. Cesare.

Cesare, the brother who loves her—far more than he should, in more _ways_ than he should. He wants to pretend that these thoughts are new, shiny as if just taken from the wrapping to be examined; but trying, now, to keep his eyes averted, he is reminded of every singularly lustful thought he's ever had, and how many of them seem to be about his only sister.

"I-I should leave, sis," Cesare stutters, but his voice sounds gravelly even to his own ears.

"Why?" she says at once, not even a moment for thought—Cesare does wonder what she's thinking. "Am I ugly, brother?"

"The man who makes that claim will lose his tongue," Cesare replies, immediately in defence of her honour, her beauty, her purity. Even if he thinks perhaps her purity is more in the soft, silken whiteness of her skin. So pale. So achingly lovely.

"My foot," she says, raising one leg a bit, and arching her foot, "it is ungainly. Too large, perhaps."

"Your foot is beautiful," Cesare grinds out; he's never been so discomfited in his life. How can she have this conversation, an almost-acceptable sort of thing, while wearing absolutely nothing but the drape of golden material from her gown? He can barely look at her, though he suspects that is more because of just how _badly_ he wants to look at her, to drink her in the way no brother ought.

"You can't tell from there. Feel it."

What _is_ she thinking? What is she doing? Cesare cannot untangle the knot of threads his mind has become, because how can he honestly be expected to think with her lying out in the open like that?

This way lies madness, Cesare knows it as surely as he knows the Latin for absolving some poor soul in the confessional. Madness, and possibly—no, probably—also hell. For him, if not his sister. He doesn't want to bring her there with him, but she seems rather set on dragging him downwards with _her_.

He swallows, feeling it almost catch in his throat, and crosses the chamber anyway, every footstep as if it's the last one, but an inevitability nonetheless, and reaches out. Her foot is slightly cool to the touch, but unbearably soft. She smiles at him as he does it, benevolent, but somehow just this side of devilish. Cesare feels a throb in his throat, and he hardens. Just a little, for just now. But it's enough to make him want to pull away.

But he doesn't. He can deny her nothing, especially when it's something he yearns for so much himself.

"Is this a game," he asks, but not really. Lucrezia answers him anyway.

"It is a game of want… and wanting," she says, softly almost, her eyes locked on his. Cesare hardens a little bit more. "The toes are… splayed, a little. God has made better feet, I'm sure—"

Cesare interrupts her, he can't help himself. "Not that I have found."

She actually _giggles_ , a coquettish sound that travels straight through Cesare like lightning and lodges in his groin. He hardens even more, swelling a little outwards, pushing against his braies and leathers. He wonders if she'll notice. What she'll do if she does notice.

Where is this… game, of want, and wanting, going? Does he even want to know? Lucrezia seems as though she plans to draw him till the end, though, whether he wants to understand or not.

Perversely, he _does_ want to understand.

"You are a connoisseur of feet," she asks him, nearly laughing. Is her mirth at his expense? Or does she include him in it? He cannot tell—and that unnerves him, because once he would have said he could tell anyone anything about her, and be accurate. But that was before. Marriage has changed her. Motherhood has changed her. He does not know her as well as he used to.

Perhaps he no longer knows her at all, if this game she's playing is any indication. It seems almost designed to end in the ruination of them both.

"Yes, I have found none better," Cesare says, smiling, laughing with her. He cannot even countenance how true it is, once the words have tripped from his lips: all of his women, in all of his years, and he does not think he's ever seen a foot so beautiful as this one. He curls his hand around it, relishing the feel. The texture, the shape.

Good God, he could almost make love to her foot.

He has to stop thinking of her in those terms.

"My calf," she murmurs, "is it elegant? Is it… smooth," and she sounds honey-smooth as she says it, delicious and decadent. Absolutely as though she's toying with him—because that's all this can ever be.

It matters not; Cesare's cock fills with more blood: almost fully there, now. Almost enough, and yet far too much. He has got to stop. He must.

He cannot, for Cesare is weak, weak of the mind when it comes to his sister, weak of will where it concerns Lucrezia. He slides his palm up the yes, elegant, turned out slope of her calf.

And his body settles firmly into complete arousal, uncomfortable and aching, more pain than pleasure. She must know what she's doing to him; she's been married before, she'd taken a lover. She knows how to play a man like a lute, between her beauty and her cunning.

He just never thought he'd be that man.

"What is this game, sis?" he asks, dropping his hand. He's already touched her far more than he should have, and his body is out of his control now, burning him up from the inside out.

"My betrothed will not bed me. He will not touch me," she says, her voice losing the lustre of its carnal quality. "He is a virgin."

"You have the means to change that history, I'm sure."

"Are you sure? That this body has the necessary charms?" she asks, no longer reclining as much as she leans forward and takes a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer to her than he has any right to be in a moment such as this, with her body on display and _his_ body in open revolt.

It does not matter; he climbs onto the bed next to her, close as the confidantes they've always been, but, also, as close as lovers. Cesare wants to berate himself for it, but now he is worried about her. How can anyone so beautiful, so eminently loveable, feel this sort of emptiness that shows on her face?

"I'm certain." Cesare's voice is an agony of desire now. He wonders if she can hear it. He imagines that if she is truly listening, she will recognise it. Men have fallen at her feet since she was twelve years old. She is no stranger to the sound of lust, of longing, in a man's tone.

"He has a made a vow, to St. Agnes, the patron saint of purity, to remain chaste until married."

Cesare mumbles something, he's not even sure himself what he's saying, but she continues.

"I am a Borgia, and I feel unloved."

Cesare's heart constricts and then hardens as much as his cock, in anger. Despite the fact that he's still totally aroused, he's also furious all at once with Alfonso. How could he allow her to feel this way? Does he not know that she deserves to be loved? To be worshiped? He's a spineless weakling, and Cesare hates him for it, the same way he hated him when her betrothed would not stand up for her bringing her son into her new marriage. How could he expect a woman to leave her child behind? The very flesh of her flesh?

"Positively foolish," Cesare says, nearly crooning at her now. She does not smile, however, though once those words would probably have soothed her aches. Now she simply stares into his eyes, the light blue entrancing, and says,

"You look, but don't touch." She glances down, briefly, and Cesare does not dare to wonder what she might be searching for. A tear drips from her face, just one, and Cesare wants to give her everything. He'd give her his whole life if he could, distilled into a bottle that she could spray all over herself like perfume, to have him with her always—and yes, touching her everywhere. He would gladly die for her. He's already killed for her.

He's definitely looking. But he will not touch her, though. It would be wrong. He would be wrong to do it.

Still, the smooth tops of her breasts are on display, pushed upwards by the hand that holds the gown up, giving her only the slightest amount of decency. Her legs are long, lithe, and bare. Her feet are indeed perfect.

But he finds himself, more than anything, staring at her lips.

It's Lucrezia who moves first, but only barely. Cesare has already committed himself to the same forward motion, and their lips are mere breaths apart, just touching, just _there_ , when her maid knocks on the door. For a moment, Lucrezia continues to hold herself in place, her lips like nirvana against Cesare's. He leans forward a bit; he wants to claim her mouth.

She pulls back.

And Cesare is left wondering, as he leaves the chamber for delicacy's sake, whether he has just lost the game of want… and wanting.

Because God knows, he _wants_. His cock does not wish to be denied, though Cesare now knows there is no future in this damned emotional place. He's ensnared here, by her, by loving her, by _wanting_ her.

Trapped, for all eternity.

The problem is, he wouldn't want it any other way.

END.


End file.
